Batman: Scapegoat
by WriterDanG
Summary: A grim new figure emerges from the shadows of Gotham City, driven by guilt and pain, and bent on dark bloody redemption. And every drop of blood he spills, every life he takes... he does it all for Batman.
1. Chapter 1

Batman:Scapegoat by Dan Goldstein

Chapter 1 – The Goat

"Wake up, Mr. Cobblepot."

The grotesque figure before me squirms, half mutters something, but doesn't awaken. Not surprising. The tranq I hit him with would have taken down a gorilla. But I needed to be sure. Sure he was well and truly out. Sure this bird wouldn't wake up, not before I wanted him to, before I had him trussed him up good and tight. And that took some doing. This bird weighs roughly 300 very slippery, fish-stinking pounds. It took nearly two hours to get all four limbs bound and stretched just right. The devil, they say, is in the details. And this has to be perfect, no room for error. Only clarity and purpose.

Up close, he's even more repulsive than I'd imagined; his skin pale and clammy, his nose sharp and malformed. And those teeth… Surely this is evil, corruption so deep and elemental that it oozes to the surface. I have never been more certain, more deeply convinced of the rightness of my mission. Everything is in place. But justice demands the guilty be aware of their punishment, so it is time for the sleeping Penguin to awaken and face judgement. One strong slap and his eyes shoot open.

Predictably, his first reaction is confusion… followed by threats.

"Whaaat?! What's going on?! Who the hell are you?! I'll have you skinned alive and dipped in brine for this!"

"I doubt that."

"Oh really," he strains at his bonds, "Do you have any idea who I am? Do you really think some goat-horned gimp suit is going to scare me? Or protect you? Take whatever you want, you won't get far."

"I'm not here to scare you, or to take your precious things. No, Mr. Cobblepot. I've come to take everything."

My fingers close around the knife handle, old familiar friend, and I draw the long blade from its sheath on my leg; slowly, savoring the sound of it. I hold it up, looking at the play of light along the edge and the funhouse reflection of Oswald Cobblepot in the hollow-ground steel. Even in this distorted image, I can see true fear creep across his hideous face.

He's rambling now, words pouring out of his mouth in a panicked flood. But I'm not listening. I am face to face with him, staring into those fear-mad eyes. His frantic, grating voice fades away along with all the noise and static of the world. All I can hear is the gentle whisper of the blade as it slices through his pallid throat, and the soft rush of blood cascading crimson down his twitching bulk. It brings me peace.

When it's over I wipe the knife on his coat, sheathe it, and walk to the large spotlight in the center of the room. With a flick of the switch, it bursts into blinding, brilliant life. Cobblepot's body is bathed in light, luminous, except for the dark winged shape at the center, which falls directly across his broad torso. Perfect placement, devils and details and all that. This way they will know… HE will know. This was no random act of violence, no mob hit, no robbery gone wrong. This is murder with purpose, this is sacrifice; an offering in service to the Bat.


	2. Chapter 2

Scene 2 – The Bat

The pain shoots through my left side. I breathe in deep and push it down. Two cracked ribs, maybe three. Nothing I can't fight through. But I should've been faster. I have to be faster, especially with an opponent like Killer Croc. I can't match his strength or his ferocity, so I have to be faster, smarter, better than him. That's how I've beaten him in the past, and that's how I'm going to beat him now. There's a crew of terrified Gotham City sewer workers depending on it.

The poor bastards stumbled into Croc's lair during some routine maintenance. Good thing one of them managed to radio for help. Good thing I was listening. Still, Croc had already eaten one of them by the time I found him, with what was left of the man's arm hanging out of his fanged, bloody mouth. That's an image I won't shake anytime soon. I managed to get between him and the four remaining sewer workers; a full stomach makes Croc a little slow. Not too slow. He got one good blow in, a wild backhand that caught me right in the side, sent me crashing into the wall.

But I'm still standing, and I'm still between Croc and his captives, lucky break. Then again, Croc's never been one for strategy; he fights like a wild animal. And that's exactly how he comes at me. Predictable. He lunges. I dive to the side and those massive clawed hands miss me by a mile. Swinging around, I drive my heel into the back of his skull, hard. His face smacks into the concrete. I hear a few teeth shatter. Croc leaps to his feet, furious, and roars.

"I will break you and suck the marrow from your bones, Batman!"

"No. You won't. You're not hurting anyone else tonight, Croc."

I reach both hands back, under the cape, and slip on the shock gloves. The air fills with the smell of ozone and their low electric hum. For a second, Croc looks unsure. A second is all I need. I launch myself at him and my fist connects with his jaw. The combined shock and impact send him sprawling. And now he's nearly blind with rage. He charges me, flailing and frantic. I easily duck his aimless attack and deliver an uppercut that makes him stagger back, then drop to his knees. One more punch and he's out.

For a moment I stand over Croc, the image of his bloody feast flashing in my mind, and I think just how easy it would be to end him, once and for all; to make sure no one else would ever suffer because of this unrepentant, unredeemable monster. A moment is all I allow myself. That thought is always there with the worst of them… Croc, Joker, even Harvey. Is it the right thing to do… to let them live? When does the weight of one person's crimes finally tip the scales? I've come at this question from every angle, attacked it time and time again, but the answer eludes me. Or rather, I've reached every possible conclusion, and found them all flawed. So the only certainty I've found is that it's simply not up to me. I don't get to make that call.

"You're going to be alright. It's over," I reassure the terrified hostages. Just to be sure, I secure Croc's hands behind his back. It takes special cuffs to hold a beast like this. Clark helped me make these, figure they'll do. I inject Croc with a powerful sedative to keep him out, then radio Gordon.

"Jim, he's down. But we lost one. I took too long."

"Don't blame yourself, Batman. You got there as fast as you could."

"Not fast enough."

Soon Gordon's men start filing in, bagging and tagging, tending to the hostages. I slip out through the sewers, up to the surface, and set a course back to the cave. Before I'm out of the thick of Gotham's urban center, Gordon's voice comes through the radio.

"You in for the night?"

"You know better than that."

"Good, meet me at the Iceberg Lounge. You're going to want to see this."

It's a short drive through the mostly deserted 4am streets. In a matter of minutes, I'm parked in an alley behind the Iceberg Lounge, the garish underworld hotspot operated by Oswald Cobblepot, aka the Penguin. Cobblepot's reputation looms large in Gotham's criminal circles, but his time as a major player is mostly over. That much is common knowledge. Now he holds court at the Iceberg, drinking and soaking in the adoration of his admirers. He still dips his beak into the occasional criminal enterprise, purely lightweight stuff, but he also supplies me with a steady diet of information – who's planning what and when. That knowledge is far less common, which is the way we both want it to stay.

I grapnel up to the roof and approach the skylight. Even with an invitation from Jim, I'm not walking in blind. The whole main room of the Iceberg is visible from up here – the bar, the stage, and the crowd of cops standing in front of it like an audience. They're almost stone still, even their mouths hardly move, and they're all staring at the same thing; the suspended, lifeless body of Oswald Cobblepot, and the Bat-signal projected onto his chest. I open the skylight and jump onto the upper balcony, then down to the floor, behind the murmuring crowd. Jim Gordon stands at the rear of the group, not talking to the others, just studying the scene.

"Jim," I say, just to let him know I'm there.

He flinches. "Damn it, do you have to do that?"

"Force of habit."

"Right, hang on a minute," He takes a step back and shouts, "OK everyone, time to clear the room!"

They all turn, confused. But then they understand, and dutifully follow his order, shuffling out into the street.

"I kept them off the stage, figured you'd want to take a look before the whole scene got trampled on."

"Thanks."

No one would have mistaken Oswald Cobblepot for a good man. Even when he was useful, it was only out of self-interest. He was greedy, cruel, a creature of nearly boundless appetite. Gotham will not mourn him, and neither will I. But I take no joy in his death, particularly the elaborate theatricality and clearly directed nature of its staging. Penguin's murder is a message written in blood, and it's addressed to me.

"Whoever did this took their time, and they knew exactly what they were doing."

"Agreed," Gordon replies.

"There's no sign of a struggle. No mess, apart from the blood. Even looks like he cleaned up when he was done. This one is confident, nothing rushed or frantic. He's taking his time, enjoying his work."

"Work? I think that's giving him a little too much credit, even if he did do Gotham a favor."

"Make no mistake Jim, we're dealing with a trained professional; someone who's killed for a living."

"How can you possibly know that?"

"Penguin was alive when he was strung up, so he must have been out cold. But there's no contusion, no head wound that could have rendered him unconscious. There _is_ a very small puncture behind his right ear, the kind a tranquilizer dart would make. Cobblepot's jacket doesn't leave much of his neck exposed, only a few inches of soft tissue between the top of the collar and his skull. It takes a skilled marksman to make that shot."

"True."

"And this whole thing was carried out with a soldier's precision. But most pros lack ideology. They fulfill contracts, nothing more. This is different, personal somehow, to him and to me."

"You think this is a warning? Maybe someone knew Penguin was spilling secrets," Gordon suggests.

"I don't think so. You're the only one I shared that information with, and I doubt Cobblepot was loose-lipped about it."

"Then what? Why go to such trouble setting the scene?"

"This seems almost ceremonial, like he's following some sort of ritual."

"No offense, but who the hell performs rituals to Batman?"

"I don't know. But whoever it is, this won't be the end of it."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

The Bat

I manage only a few hours of sleep before Alfred comes in and pulls back the curtains, flooding the room with unwelcome light.

"Good noon, Master Bruce. I hate to force you to experience daylight, but as you no doubt remember today is the unveiling of the new Wayne Enterprises wounded veterans initiative. I believe you are expected to make an appearance, possibly even utter a few words."

"Right, of course. Still, you could introduce the light a little more… gradually. It's almost like you enjoy these rude awakenings."

"Allow an old man his guilty pleasures. I'm not dousing you in cold water, after all. Not yet."

"What was that?"

"Nothing sir, I'll have the car waiting in front as soon as you're ready."

He leaves my breakfast tray on the bedside table, exits and closes the door. I make quick work of the food and hit the shower. A few minutes later I'm in the back of the car, with Alfred at the wheel heading down the long driveway and off to Gotham. After about ten minutes he breaks the silence.

"You haven't said much about last night, sir."

"There isn't much to say, Alfred. Penguin's dead. Murdered by someone with a point to make, someone who seems to want my attention very badly. Well he's got it."

"What next?"

"Whoever this is, he's good. Too good to leave sloppy clues behind, nothing he didn't want me to find. There's no clear trail to follow."

"Surely you don't intend to simply wait for him to kill again?"

"No, I have to flush him out."

"And how do you propose to do that, Master Bruce?"

"'I'll just have to stir the pot a little, and today's event provides a perfect opportunity."

We arrive at Wayne Tower a few minutes late. Perfect timing actually, makes me appear both charitable and a little bit irresponsible. Alfred pulls up right in front of the main entrance, and the gaggle of press that have congregated there.

"Feeding me directly to the wolves, Alfred?"

"Certainly not, sir. You are more than a match for this rabble. But they afford you the opportunity to reinforce the Bruce Wayne image. Have you got your mask securely in place?"

"Heh. Yes, ready to go."

He's right, as usual. This is the act. This is the mask. A charade to protect myself and those I care about. The cowl is truth. But right now the act is necessary, even useful. Alfred exits the driver's seat and makes his way around to open my door, and then it's a flood of camera flashes, noise and shouted questions as I climb out of the limousine and politely carve a path to the front door.

"Thanks for being here to cover this important event," I say, after turning to the crowd. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm running a little behind schedule. If you're looking for a quote, don't worry, I'll have plenty to say at the ceremony proper. See you all inside."

The noise all but vanishes as soon as the heavy glass doors click shut. Walking to the elevators, I'm almost stopped by the security guard at the front desk.

"Hey, can I…" he manages before recognition kicks in and he immediately shifts to, "Good to see you Mr. Wayne."

"Thanks, good to be here," I shoot back with a smile.

There's quite a crowd gathered, many of our employees as well as a number of vets that Wayne Industries is already helping. The press are still settling in as I find my seat on the stage beside the board of directors. Lucius Fox, President of the Wayne Foundation, walks to the podium and begins to speak.

"I've known Bruce Wayne for a long time, and the man has no shortage of ideas. I'll be the first one to tell you, not all of them are good."

The audience laughs, perfect. Lucius is an invaluable ally, not only because he designs and builds most of my gear. He's also a crucial part of the act, the brilliant and steady leader who keeps Wayne Enterprises on track while billionaire Bruce Wayne basks in the spotlight.

"But sometimes," Lucius continues, "sometimes he hits on something too good, too right to ignore. So when Bruce said he wanted to do something to help veterans heal their wounds, both physical and psychological, I knew the Wayne Foundation had to get involved. Well today I am proud to announce the Epione Initiative; a charitable organization, fully funded by Wayne Enterprises, dedicated to helping those who've served so bravely live fuller, richer lives. And we're starting right here in Gotham, with the construction of the Epione Clinic, a new wing of Gotham General Hospital. We break ground in a month, and I'll be happy to tell you more about the various aspects of this project. But before we get to the specifics, let me turn you over to the man you're no doubt here to see anyway, the force behind all the good work we do, Mr. Bruce Wayne."

The crowd cheers and a cacophony of cameras goes off as I walk to the podium, pausing to shake Lucius' hand and thank him for his pitch perfect intro.

"Thank you, thank you all for coming. I…" I rifle through my pockets, pretending to look for notes to a speech I never wrote. "Well, it looks like I'm winging it. Ladies and gentlemen, we started the Epione Initiative to do work that seemed so obviously, blatantly necessary that we couldn't believe more wasn't being done. We're pairing cutting edge medical science with next gen technology to create a brighter future for our veterans. Now, I'm no scientist, or engineer, or doctor for that matter. Let's face it, what I bring to the table is resources, the resources that all those doctors and scientists and engineers need to do the amazing things they want to do. And fortunately, I also have Lucius Fox, a man smart and organized enough to turn my pie-in-the-sky ramblings into workable reality. Thanks, Lucius," I point at him and wink. Alright, enough of this, time to open the gates and let the press do its work.

"We're on track to do amazing things, and really make a difference in a lot of lives. This is exactly the kind of thing the Wayne Foundation was founded to accomplish. Now, do any of you have any questions?" I prompt.

A forest of hands shoots up, all attached to people barking "Mr. Wayne! Mr. Wayne." I spot Vicki Vale. Good bet I know exactly what she'll ask about, and it's not the wounded vets.

"Ms. Vale?"

"Yes, Mr. Wayne. Speaking of your resources, you've been very open about funding the Batman. In the wake of last night's murder of famed underworld figure Oswald Cobblepot, and the bizarre Bat-themed display of his corpse, what is the Dark Knight's reaction? Have you heard from him?"

"Well… I did reach out to him when I heard the news. We only spoke for a few seconds, but there was no mistaking his tone. He was particularly disgusted by the staging. Called the killer a sick degenerate perverting justice, and a few other things I probably shouldn't repeat. So, there you go."

That should do the trick. I look down at my watch, pretending to suddenly notice the time.

"Ah, it looks like I have to get going. Thanks again for your support and to Lucius and all the brilliant people driving the Epione Initiative… thank you!"

I pause to shake a few hands on my way out, smile for a few more photos, and then I'm back outside and into the limo.

"Well sir, was it everything you'd hoped?"

"If the killer cares what Batman thinks, and I'm betting hard that he does, then we can expect to hear from him very soon."

"Are we expecting him to simply pick up the phone and say hello?"

"Of course not. There's no telling how he'll respond, too much ground to cover. This is more than I can do alone Alfred. It's time to call in reinforcements."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

The Goat

This is a farce, a joke, nothing but a show. The cavernous lobby of Wayne Tower is filled with clamoring press, self-satisfied executives, fawning employees; and then there's us. In case these comfortable corporate parasites forget who they're patting themselves on the back for helping, here are some token vets to gawk at. I focus on breath, on what I can control, here among all the things I can't. I should never have come here. I'm exposed, out in the open, in the harsh light of day. It's only in the still and silent darkness where I can be my truer, better self. There all my sins fade away and my purpose is clear, sharp and strong. Still, I wanted to see and hear it for myself, this new Wayne solution. I should know better than to hope, but Wayne funds the Bat. And without the Bat I would be lost. So maybe, just maybe… But these people cannot fix me, I see it in their eyes. There are no answers there. Not the ones that matter.

Suddenly the crowd congeals and quiets. I recognize the man walking to the podium, Lucius Fox. His eyes are different; this one knows things worth knowing. But he says nothing worth hearing, except to introduce his boss, the man who personally funds the Bat, Bruce Wayne. Wayne seems a well-meaning lightweight. He is charming, but distracted. His eyes are… guarded; which does not match his manner. Mostly he says nothing new, until he takes a question. It's about me, and the Bat. I feel joy to hear us linked, but it is short lived; turned in an instant to disbelief, outrage. Either his report is true and the Bat misunderstands me so grievously, or he speaks falsely. Why would Bruce Wayne tell such a lie so publicly? And then he is gone, before another question can be asked, leaving those words echoing in my head… 'sick degenerate'… 'perverting justice'.

I need to know the truth of this. Bruce Wayne holds that truth, and I will pry it out of him if I must.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

The Bat

I've put the call out to a few friends. The circle is small for now, until I know more. Just Dick and Kate. Dick, Nightwing, knows me better than anyone except Alfred. As the original Robin, he learned almost everything I have to teach. He's smart, quick, an exceptional hand-to-hand combatant. Most importantly, he knows how to follow orders. This killer is too smart, too good at what he does to make stupid mistakes. It will take precision to catch him, that means I need soldiers with exceptional discipline. Kate, Batwoman, learned that kind of discipline from her father, Colonel Jacob Kane. She's grown tremendously since she began, and more than proven that she deserves to wear the bat. I reached out to both of them. For now, I'm sitting in the cave looking over what little information I do have from the crime scene at the Iceberg. It's not much to go on.

A shrill honk shatters the silence. Something's triggered the perimeter alarm, or more likely someone. Dick and Kate know to come in through the cave entrance, so who's the uninvited guest? I pull up the perimeter cameras. At first there's nothing. Then I catch a glimpse, a flash of movement. In the darkness of the night, an even darker shadow. He moves swiftly and confidently, probably doesn't know he tripped a sensor. There are three independent layers of security surrounding Wayne Manor. The first is obvious, only an amateur would miss it. The second is much more discrete. Discover that, like he did… chances are you pat yourself on the back and consider yourself home-free. You'd be wrong. The third layer makes state-of-the-art look obsolete. Let's just say not all of the components are from this planet.

The shadow comes to rest on the roof of the manor house and peers in through the high window. I switch the monitor view to night-vision to get a better look at our stealthy intruder. He's definitely a he, about six foot, lean and muscled, dressed in a matte black bodysuit, looks almost like bondage gear. The mask is like an extension of the suit. It completely covers his head with two round, goggle-like eyes. A pair of large goat horns protrude from the temples then curl back down and around, ending near his jaw. Interesting look.

He moves from one window to another, most likely looking for me. Is this our mystery killer? What does he want with Bruce Wayne? It's risky, but there's only one way to find out. I lose the cape and cowl, gloves and boots, and the belt. The rest of the suit I can cover up, some oversized silk pajamas and a robe do the trick. I slip out into the manor house, make my way to the study and turn on the reading light. Flame lit, now I wait for the moth.

It doesn't take him long, less than a minute. I hear him behind me. The hardest part of playing Bruce Wayne is suppressing the instincts and reactions I've spent decades refining. Every nerve is itching, screaming for me to leap from this chair, spin around and hurl the bat-a-rang in my pocket into his knee. Then we could have a nice, long, in-depth conversation, on my terms. But that kind of stunt is sure to blow my cover. Bruce Wayne is no warrior. Bruce Wayne couldn't even save his own parents. He's weak, slow, afraid. I have to remember that. What would Bruce do? Nothing.

So I wait, for seconds that feel like a tiny eternity, for him to slip into view. Then I try hard to act appropriately surprised. The horned, goggled fetish look makes that act a little easier. That mask covers up all traces of humanity, even his eyes. The effect is unsettling.

"Hello, Bruce," he says.

The self-satisfied tone in his voice tells me he's buying the act, thinks he's caught me off guard. Good.

"Who the hell are you? How did you get in here?" I demand. The appropriate blend of fear and self-righteous indignation helps sell it.

"Save it Mr. Wayne, I'll be asking the questions tonight. Just nod if that works for you."

I nod.

"Good, I'm here because we have a mutual person of interest, Batman. You know him, you help him. The fact that you are an ally of the Bat is the reason we are having such a friendly conversation. I assure you, my usual method of questioning is far less congenial, much more hands on. But that's not necessary here, is it?"

I shake my head, "No." My fingers play along the edge of the bat-a-rang in the pocket of my robe. The curved blade is sharp and cold.

"So tell me about your conversation with Batman. You claim he disapproves of my efforts?"

"You're the one who killed Oswald Cobblepot?"

"Of course, and you're welcome. You and all of Gotham."

"I guess Batman doesn't see it that way."

"So you say. But why should I believe you?"

"I have no reason to lie to you. Right now I just want to live through the night. Besides, you know Batman doesn't kill."

"Exactly, that's the perfection of it. Don't you see? Doesn't he? Batman is more than a man, he's a symbol of justice. He has to be righteous, uncorrupted by the taking of life. That's why I do it for him. I wade into the filth and rot and do what must be done, what he can't do. So he can remain pure and perfect. I take the sin and guilt and wear it as my burden. I am the Scapegoat."

"Scapegoat? Is that what I should tell him to call you?"

"The name is accurate, Mr. Wayne. Only, unlike an animal, I accept my fate willingly. It is my purpose to do grim but needful things, to be the killer that he cannot be. For him, for the Bat."

"So what do you want from me?"

"I needed to know your words were true. I believe they are. You must take my message to Batman. You can explain, make him understand what I'm doing. He has to see that I am not some degenerate madman, this is a righteous crusade!"

"Yeah, sounds real righteous."

The sharp, sarcastic voice comes from the far side of the room, behind him. And there, in the doorway, stands Nightwing, batons in hand.

"Now," he continues, "How about you step away from the nice man and we can talk all about this crusade thing you're so excited about."

"No, this is all wrong," Scapegoat anguishes, turning to face Dick. "You are not my enemy. I do not want to fight you."

"Works for me," Dick replies. "I'll toss over a pair of cuffs and you can just do the honors yourself. Then, you know… no fight needed. But something tells me you're not that kinda guy."

"No, I am not."

Dick always did have a way with banter. Good thing. He manages to distract Scapegoat long enough for me to slip quietly out of the room, down to the cave where I can rid myself of this feeble disguise and put on my true face.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

The Bat

Back in the cave I throw off the bed clothes, armor up and access the study room camera on the large center monitor, volume on high. For a moment they circle each other, Nightwing and Scapegoat, then both come to a stop. The first thing I hear is Dick's voice. No surprise there. I've never seen anyone talk their way through a fight the way Dick does. I've given up trying to break him of the habit. Truth be told, it doesn't seem to slow him down. And it makes me smile.

"So, just to be clear, it's a big N-O to doing this the easy way? You're sure about that? 'Cause it's not too late to be a good goat and turn yourself in."

"No. I have important work to do, and even you cannot be allowed to stand in my way. But I have no desire to harm you, so I offer _you_ the chance to stand down."

"Well, we tried the carrot," Dick cracks, "now for the stick."

He whips around and slings a baton at Scapegoat, who flips backwards dodging the projectile. This one's fast, precise, well trained. And he's comfortable killing when he deems it necessary. If I had to guess, I'd say ex-military, probably Special Forces. Dick always did like a challenge.

Scapegoat crouches and flings both arms forward sending a pair of slender throwing knives slicing through the air towards Nightwing. I inhale sharply, eyes glued to the monitor, holding my breath. In a fraction of a second, Dick drops down out of sight, like a trapdoor opened and swallowed him. Good soldier, just the way we practiced.

He leaps high into the air, acrobat to the core, and comes down hard, knee first, right into Scapegoat. For a split second I think Dick's got him; this should knock him breathless, send him sprawling. But the bastard pivots at the last second, grabs Dick's knee and flings him into the wall. Time to end this. I'm out of the cave and back in the manor house in seconds. Scapegoat claims he doesn't want this fight. But he's a killer, and I'm not taking any chances. Not after Jason. Never again.

From outside the study I can hear them, just sounds, no words. This must be a serious fight if Dick has gone silent. Through the open door I see Scapegoat go flying backwards into the wall. I can hear exactly where he hits, and the slow scrape as he pushes himself back to his feet. By the time he's almost up, I'm in place, only the wall between us. I breathe deep then drive both fists forward with maximum force, through the wall on either side of Scapegoat's head. His mask is slick, tough to find traction. I shift my hands and grab hold of his horns, holding tight. Good thing he's so committed to the 'goat' theme.

"Looks like you get to meet your hero," Dick taunts. "Must be your lucky day."

"Noooo! This is all wrong," Scapegoat says. "All wrong…"

"Well," a female voice chimes in, "It sure looks wrong. Is this a fetish thing? You guys need some privacy?"

There's no mistaking Kate's deadpan tone.

"Very funny," Dick shoots back, "You're here just in time, now that the heavy lifting's all done."

The way they jab at each other, almost like brother and sister. Almost like a family. But right now my main focus is getting our uninvited guest into his very own cell at Arkham.

"This one calls himself Scapegoat," I turn to Batwoman. "When you run out of one-liners feel free to help Nightwing restrain him."

"On it," she replies, and enters the study. I can't see them through the wall, but I can hear them. And I can feel the fight go out of Scapegoat as they get a hold of him.

"Ok Batman," Nightwing calls out, "We've got him, you can let go."

I release my grip on the horns then walk around the corner and into the room. Dick and Kate have Scapegoat on the ground, hands tied behind his back, and they're working on binding his feet. He's gone limp, and surprisingly silent. No grand proclamations, no howls of anguish. Strange.

"This oughta hold him," Dick says with a smile.

"Good work, both of you," Dick and Kate finish up and turn to me. "I'm sure Mr. Wayne will be pleased to hear that we've captured the intruder."

I'm hoping adrenaline and the agony of defeat prevent Scapegoat from putting all the pieces together. He breaks into Wayne Manor, only to be met by Nightwing, Batwoman and Batman himself. Never mind that Batman only showed up after Bruce Wayne made his escape. If I'd waited a little longer Kate would have been there to give Dick all the back-up he needed. Careless, stupid. The things we do for family. Like a father reaching for a mugger's gun in a dark alleyway, trying to shield his wife and young son.

"I'll put a call in to the GCPD and they can take Scapegoat to Arkham. With any luck there's still someone worth saving under that mask."

"Maybe. At least your rogues gallery will sleep easier with this guy off the street, so that's nice," Dick replies sarcastically.

It is strange, knowing that by putting Scapegoat behind bars we are saving the lives of killers, rapists, the very criminal scum I have devoted my life to fighting. But there has to be a line, there has to be. Life and death, it's not my call to make. And it's not Scapegoat's either.

"None of them sleep easy," I fire back, sharply. Too sharply. The smile melts off Dick's face.

"I'm sorry," he says, "I… I didn't mean…"

"I know," I reassure him. "And it's not true."

"What isn't?" Kate asks, beating Dick to the punch.

"That none of them sleep easy. There is… one."

"Joker," she says, not so much a question as a statement of obvious fact.

"After all the pain and death he's caused, no matter how many times I stop him, or how badly I hurt him... I watched him once, sleeping in his cell. I was there to question him, one on one. No warden, no guards, just the truth. But I found him stretched out on his bunk, dead to the world, smiling. I stood there, just watching him, for at least an hour. The smile never left his face."

And the memory of that smile has never left me. It wasn't his usual malevolent rictus grin. It was tranquil, content. And I hate him even more for it. I hate that the monster who murdered Jason and crippled Barbara knows peace, even if only in his dreams.

Suddenly Scapegoat's voice rings out, "You don't see, you don't understand. But you will, you all will."

Nightwing, Batwoman and I turn to find the chair empty, cleanly cut ropes lying on the floor. Scapegoat is across the room, perched in the now open window. All three of us hurl projectiles at the pitch black horned figure, but before they've even left our hands he's gone. Disappeared into the night. That's usually my trick. We run down to the cave, check every security cam, every sensor, but there's nothing. No sign of him.

"What do you think he meant?" Dick asks, "What will we see?"

"His mission," I reply. "He wants us… wants me to validate his sense of purpose."

"Ok, crazy wants what crazy wants, but what the hell is he going to do now?"

"What would goat-gimp do to impress you?" Kate asks.

And suddenly it's obvious.

"Joker," I hate even saying his name.

"You were pretty clear on your feelings about him," Kate adds.

"My hatred of that demented clown… Scapegoat must have heard it as a mission, a way to serve the Bat."

"But Joker's in Arkham," Dick offers. "So if this guy wants to take him out, he'd have to… oh shit. He'd have to break in."


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

The Goat

I make my escape from Wayne Manor, heart still racing from my encounter with the Bat. I understand now. This is destiny, my destiny. I am to be his greatest ally, his truest disciple. And when it is done, when I have exorcised the demon that possesses Gotham, corrupts her very heart, then he will see. Even if he cannot, must not, admit it; he will know that it was right, that it was righteous. By night's end, the Joker will laugh no more.

The motorcycle is just where I left it, hidden in the bushes outside the wall. Racing down the road to Gotham, the events of the evening play over and over in my head. Coincidences, too many coincidences. This should've been a simple visit to Wayne Manor – questions, answers, maybe a message for the Bat to make him understand. Why was Nightwing there? Did Wayne call him, maybe trip an alarm? Did I? One that also called Batman and Batwoman? Wayne does fund them, but all three in one place at the same time? How did Wayne manage to slip away so quickly, so quietly? And only a matter of minutes before Batman arrived. Coincidence? Here amidst the stuff of destiny? I think not. Bruce Wayne and the Bat, one and the same? By the time they bound me, my suspicion had grown strong. Now I feel sure.

The conclusion is inescapable, obvious even once you let it sink in. The sheer nerve and genius of it - hiding in plain sight, even making a show of funding yourself as a way to deflect suspicion. It's remarkable that the ruse has held for so long. And for Gotham's sake, it must continue to hold. With the cowl pulled back the Bat would become just a man, and that cannot happen. I will not allow it. Bruce Wayne cannot save Gotham, only Batman can do that, and only with my help. Surely this is part of my burden; to carry the weight of knowing, to guard the Bat's deepest secret. I am filled with a sense of clarity and purpose as I cross the Kane Memorial Bridge and enter Gotham, my course set for Arkham Asylum. The bike glides gracefully through the midnight landscape of the old city. Even in the dark you can feel the decay, the cancer that is slowly consuming what was once the heart of Gotham. You can smell the fear, the desperation. This place is a world away from downtown and its sleeping giants of granite, concrete, glass and steel. Soon I'm across the water again and on Arkham grounds. I lay the bike down out of view and make my approach. The gates are heavily guarded, day or night. But that doesn't matter. No guards, no walls, no spotlights or barbed wire can keep me from my mission.

Scaling the wall is easy. Avoiding the guards, cameras and hi-beams adds a bit of a challenge. A bit. No wonder this place is like a revolving door for sickos, sociopaths and super villains. If this is the best the city can do, they might as well just let them all loose and save the tax-payers the expense. Better yet, cull the whole damn lot of them, like a herd of diseased cattle. But I'm not here to waste my time with second rate scum, I'm here to cleanse this place of its most virulent inhabitant. Batman is right, that monster doesn't deserve to feel peace, even for a minute. Joker is damned, irredeemable, as surely as I am. And after I end his miserable life, his soul will writhe in torment for eternity. Even if I burn right beside him, I will smile knowing that I sent him howling down to Hell with my own two hands.

I don't mind burning. I've earned it. The things I've done; the blood I've spilled. Men, women, children. Sure, it was war. But 'war' is just a word. That word doesn't erase the memories, or make them any easier to live with. I am beyond redemption; I know this with a terrible certainty. And therein lies the core of my purpose. My soul is forfeit, so I can do the hard thing, the grim thing, the bloody thing that needs doing. Let the innocent remain innocent, I am killer enough for us all.

I make my way to the main building, keep to the shadows, avoid sensors and guards. Lucky for me, some doctor left an office window unlocked. I slide it open, slip inside and wait, silent and still, in the darkness until I hear the night shift guard making his rounds. He passes the office door. I ease it open, grab him from behind, quickly, quietly. My hands clamp down over his mouth and nose, holding tight until I feel him go limp. He'll wake up in a while with a nasty headache, but nothing more. I drag the unconscious guard into the office, relieve him of his magnetic-stripped ID card, and stash him under the desk out of sight.

The card grants me access to Arkham's deeper, darker levels; those grim and lightless places where they keep things best forgotten. I recognize the names on the doors – Harvey Dent, Victor Zsasz, Jonathon Crane – but don't stop, until a voice calls out from the darkness.

"Nice horns"

I turn towards the voice, Edward Nashton aka Nygma.

"Riddle me this," he says. "Until I am measured I am not known. Yet how you miss me when I have flown. What am I?"

Nygma's eyes peer out at me through the small barred window in his door. This one hadn't figured into my plans. But life is unpredictable, and one must always be ready to improvise. I approach the cell.

"Care to guess?" Nygma prompts. I say nothing. "No? Fine then, I'll tell you. Time. Get it?"

"Yes," I reply, and with a casual swipe of the guard's card-key his door clicks open.

Nygma jumps back, then cautiously pushes the door open. After a moment he steps out into the hall, eyes darting back and forth, looking around like he's expecting a trap. Finally, he takes a deep breath and turns his attention back to me. If he was smarter he'd have kept it there the whole time.

"Here's a riddle even I can't figure," he says. "Who the hell are you and why let me out of my cell?"

"Who I am is irrelevant," I walk closer to him. "If you had more time you could call me Scapegoat. And I let you out to make this easier for me."

"Make what easier for you, Sca… "

I bring the knife up quickly. His voice stops abruptly as the slender blade pierces his jugular.

"This," I answer him.

His eyes go wide and he clutches weakly, impotently at my arm. He flails, spasms, then goes still. I let his lifeless body fall to the ground, blood pooling beside his head. This detour was unexpected, but beneficial nonetheless. Still, it felt rushed, no time to make him see his sin. But time is not on my side. I wipe the blade clean on his leg, sheathe it and turn my attention back to the far end of the hall.

After Nygma's, there are no more cells to either side. The corridor stretches on, almost lightless, ending finally at a single door with no window and no name posted. I raise the card to the sensor, and an adjacent screen blinks to life, displaying the words 'Unlock Door – Are You Sure?' with 'Yes' and 'No' in boxes below. I touch the box marked 'Yes', and the locking mechanism begins to hum and whir. I hear gears turning and what sounds like heavy machinery at work. Then the door opens, slowly, just a few inches.

"Well, well, what have we here?" his voice carves through the darkness, dripping with malice and glee. "I do love a good surprise, and it's been so long since anything unexpected happened in here. I had a little playtime with that one guard - Such fun we had! - but since then it's been so boring. I get the feeling that's all about to change."

"Not change, Joker; end," I tell him as I pull the door open.

"Ooooh, sounds serious. And me in here all helpless and alone. Say, that's a hell of an outfit you've got there! Let me guess… Goatboy? Blacksheep? The Horny Gimp?"

He steps forward out of the darkness, a malevolent smile spreading across his face. It's a very inviting target. I lunge forward and deliver a sharp uppercut that sends Joker flying backwards into the wall. My heart surges. Victory is within my grasp. I have only to reach out and claim it.

And suddenly everything is upside down. My feet pulled out from under, my head plummets and hits the floor, hard. How can he be this fast? How could I be so careless? But now there are no more reasons, no more blame or guilt. There is only the blade at my throat, my own blade turned against me; and his voice, that horrid voice, in my ear.

"Good goat, so kind, so considerate. How ever shall I repay you for this wonderful surprise? Not only do I get to stretch my legs," he says, fingering the security badge dangling around my neck, "but you've given me all of Arkham to play with. Now then, where shall we begin?"


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

The Bat

The Batmobile's engine roars and growls as I push it harder, practically grinding the gas pedal into the floor. In the passenger seat, Dick is uncharacteristically quiet. He knows what's waiting, _who's_ waiting for us at the end of this ride. In the side mirror I can see Kate keeping pace on her motorcycle. I had Lucius set her up with something special, and she rides it well. We're halfway to Arkham when GCPD alerts start coming through the scanner. The first few are vague, something about a disturbance at the asylum, possibly a security breach. By the time we arrive, our fears have been confirmed – Joker is loose, and he's freed a few of Arkham's worst. No mention of Scapegoat, only that there are two security guards in that wing holed up in the office. That won't protect them for long.

The front gate guards wave us through. Both have shotguns in their hands, and fear in their eyes. As we pull up in front of the main building, Gordon's voice comes through the com.

"Batman, are you there?"

"Right here Jim. Nightwing, Batwoman and I are at Arkham. What do you know?"

"Not much," he replies. "We don't know how he got loose."

"I may have an idea. Go on."

"As far as we know the chaos is still limited to one wing. We've got Arkham guards in riot gear ready to go, and GCPD S.W.A.T is on the way for backup. There may be hostages, we can't say for sure. A few guards are unaccounted for. I wish I could tell you more."

"Ok, have the guards and your men stand down, we're going in."

There are countless ways into Arkham. Some are common knowledge, some are privileged secrets, and a few only I know. But right now stealth isn't an issue. Tonight we enter through the front door. Inside, the gathered crowd of riot-geared guards parts to let us through. None of them say a word.

"Ok, this may be the creepiest VIP treatment ever," Dick cracks, just loud enough for Kate and I to hear.

"They're scared, and they have every reason to be. If Joker decides to escalate the situation, they could have a full-scale riot on their hands. I wonder why he hasn't."

"What do you think he wants?" Kate asks.

"Trying to guess what drives him is a waste of time. Since Joker and I first crossed paths, he's told me at least five different stories about who he used to be, how he became what he is. Maybe one was true, maybe none. Or maybe each had a bit of the truth. I used to puzzle over it, struggle to piece together his narrative; as if knowing _how_ it happened would somehow explain him away."

"And now?" she prompts.

"Now I know better. The 'why' and 'how' of Joker's story don't matter. The only thing that matters is stopping him, before he hurts anyone else."

Dick, Kate and I walk down the hall to a single elevator. There are no buttons, only a scanner. Two nervous looking guards stand nearby. One looks up at me, nods and runs his ID card over the sensor. The doors open. No buttons inside the elevator either, this car only shuttles between two floors: main level and the tombs. After a short ride, the doors slide open once again and we walk out into the main hub of Arkham's darkest corner. There's a central security office, fully enclosed, and three doors, each leading to a hallway of cells. In the central office two guards gesture wildly at us and point frantically to the middle door, which suddenly explodes outward, followed by a charging, growling Killer Croc.

He growls, low and rumbling, swivels his head left then right, scanning, and almost immediately locks on me.

"Batmaaaan!" he roars. His eyes are wild with rage. "Kill you! Break you! Drink your blood!"

Good. His hatred of me is fresh and strong. I can keep him occupied, away from the guards. But as Croc bellows animalistic threats, I see Victor Zsasz walk through the demolished doorway, dragging something large and heavy. It's another guard.

"Hello officers," he addresses the guards, while wiping his bloody free hand on the leg of his jumpsuit. "I think you misplaced one of your brothers. But don't fear for him. Fate lead him to me, and I have set him free. I am coming to set you all free, one by one."

Zsasz hoists up the guard and I can see the wide, red wound at his throat, still slowly leaking blood though the man is already dead. He hurls the body at the office and it hits the thick window with a grisly wet thud.

"You two take Zsasz," I bark at Dick and Kate, "I'll handle Croc, again."

I throw down a few smoke pellets and fall back, let Croc charge thin air. He turns from side to side, clawing at nothing. The more enraged he gets, the sloppier he is. I'm counting on that. Once he spots me, he takes off at full speed. With his prodigious strength and size, Killer Croc can charge with the force of a battering ram. What he can't do so well is stop or turn. So when he's almost on me, I leapfrog over his shoulders and Croc goes crashing headlong into the concrete wall.

On the other side of the room, Dick and Kate are more than keeping Zsasz busy. One of Dick's batons flies through the air and hits Zsasz square in the chin. Before he can recover Kate delivers a powerful roundhouse kick that sends his head snapping back in the other direction. They're starting to work together like a real team. I knew they would. Or at least I'd hoped.

Turning back to Croc, I slip a sleeping gas pellet from my belt. He's staggering, still off balance from his encounter with the wall. Lucky for me, his mouth is wide open. I move around behind and jump onto Croc's massive back, wrapping my left arm around his neck; slapping the gas pellet into his mouth and holding it shut with my right. I hear the pellet go off, delivering a room's worth of gas directly into Croc's lungs. He begins to struggle even more ferociously as smoke leaks out of his nostrils. For ten seconds that feel much longer, I hold tight. He writhes, convulses, and finally succumbs sliding unconscious to the floor. Then, for the second time this week, I cuff Waylon Jones, the monster known as Killer Croc. For one dark moment I wish Scapegoat had put Croc on his 'to do' list. Too much trouble? Too hard to kill? Who knows, maybe he tried. Whatever happened, it's clear that Scapegoat's plan went horribly wrong. He may already be dead, or worse. While I'm cuffing the unconscious Croc, Victor Zsasz is howling as Kate cinches his bonds tight.

"Nooooooo! So much to do…. Still so much space to fill."

Zsasz's body is covered with scars, one cut for each life he's taken. But for him it will never be enough. Is Scapegoat really any different? Would he ever be satisfied, ever feel his work was done? I doubt it. No matter how many criminals he puts in the ground, more will rise to take their place. That cold, hard truth only bolsters my own refusal to play judge and executioner. I'd tell myself that it would only be once, only Joker. But that would be a lie. Once you cross that line, it ceases to be a line. Then you're no better than them.

I join Dick and Kate. Zsasz is securely bound but still voicing his discontent.

"Shut up, Victor." I deliver an accompanying punch that knocks him out cold.

"Good call," Kate says, "That one gets annoying fast."

"So," Dick chimes in, motioning towards the open middle door, "I guess we have to go in there, don't we?"

I nod.

"Yeah, I figured," he shoots back. "Good times."

I start down the hallway, Dick and Kate close behind. The cell doors are open, including the one at the end. On the ground near one door is the body of Edward Nygma, The Riddler, blood pooled around his head. On the other side of the hall, sitting in his open cell, is Harvey Dent.

"Hello Harvey," I turn and approach his door, "You sitting this one out?"

"Hey Bats," he replies, then looks down at the silver dollar in his hand, clean side up. "Yeah, I wanted to join the fun, but the coin said 'no'. It's probably for the best, those guys are crazy."

"Sit tight, Harvey," I say, and push his cell door shut.

Then, from the pitch black cell at the end of the hall, I hear that voice. That dry, mirthless cackle; grating, like a rusty hinge.

"Ah ha ha ha ha haaaa… Hello lover, did ya miss me? I knew you couldn't stay away for long. Try though you might, you just can't quit me, can you?"

"Where is he, Joker?"

"Oh, you mean my new friend the Capricorn. Don't get your cape in a twist, he's right here."

Then, from out of the darkness I see those eyes, like two malevolent stars; followed by that sick, impossibly wide grin. Joker emerges from the shadows with Scapegoat held in front, arms bound behind his back and a blade to his throat.

"Where's Crane?" I demand. Even in this chaos, I can't let Scarecrow slip through the cracks.

"He's in here with us. Not much of a threat without all his toys, it turns out. I tried to get him to put the fear of God into our horned friend here, but the Scarecrow seems to be suffering from a touch of performance anxiety. It's ok Johnny, it happens to everyone. Well, not to me. But you know, _other_ people."

Switching to night vision, I can see Crane, cowering in the back of the cell.

"Goat boy would have killed him, you know. Just like he did poor old Eddie. He even tried to kill me. Imagine that! But he didn't understand what we have, you and I. He didn't know that no one gets to kill me but you, and vice versa. Personally, I hope we both go out together, a final blaze of glory. What an ending that would make to our story, the stuff of legend! But back to the hapless goat…"

"You sick piece of shit," Scapegoat growls, then grunts in pain as Joker wrenches his arms up behind him. One shoulder pops. I shift a foot forward, ready to lunge if the clown gives me an opening.

"Not another step, my dear," Joker scolds. "That goes for your little tag-alongs too. Why'd you have to spoil the intimacy by bringing those killjoys anyway? I was hoping for a 3-way, not an orgy. Well, never mind. It doesn't mean we can't still have some fun. I've never butchered a goat before, so this might get messy."

"Joker, no. This is between us. Let him go."

"Curious. I'm used to seeing you bend over backwards to save the innocent. But this one hardly qualifies, does he? Why not just lock us both in here together and throw away the key? What makes this one any different?"

"He may not be innocent, but he still deserves a chance to redeem himself. You… you're beyond hope, beyond help. All you deserve is the darkness of that cell, until the day you die."

"Is that any way to talk about your better half? Words hurt, you know," he taunts. "Besides, if that's the way you feel, why rush down here to stop this misguided moron? Why not just leave him to his mission?"

"I didn't come here to stop him, Joker. I came to stop you. I knew he would underestimate you, give you an opportunity, however small. And I knew you would take it."

"You flatter me, Bats. Such regard for my abilities. And of course you're right because, well, here we are. But what are you prepared to do to save the life of this horned fetish freak? At first I fancied escape, now I'm of a mind to just shut the door and enjoy some quality time with my new friend."

Joker slides his face against the slick latex of Scapegoat's mask as he rants; then licks it, snaking his tongue around the base of one horn.

"Thanks, but I'll pass," Scapegoat spits the words out. He grunts as he begins twisting his head, forcing his own neck down onto the blade.

"No!" I cry out

"YESSSSS!" Joker howls with sadistic glee, craning his neck forward to get a better view.

The blade slices through fabric, then skin as blood trickles down Scapegoat's black latex suit. Joker is panting, chuckling perversely as he savors his captive's slow suicide. He's ecstatic, giddy, delighted… distracted. It's a chance I won't get again. I pull three bat-a-rangs and whip them at Joker's arm, the one holding the knife. They hit their mark, burying themselves in deep in his forearm, three in a row. He shrieks and drops the knife. Then suddenly, with incredible speed and force, Scapegoat whips his head back, shattering one curled horn against Joker's face, sending him sprawling back into the darkness of the cell. Scapegoat, shoulder dislocated and throat bleeding, turns and lunges towards Joker.

In a flash he slams Joker's head hard into the concrete floor, knocking him unconscious, and yanks a bat-a-rang out of the clown's arm. He raises the blade, ready to bring it down, ready to end the life of a man who deserves neither mercy nor sympathy. A familiar voice tells me to let it happen. How simple it would be, how easy. No need to kill Joker, just let him die. But even as my mind is spinning, my body is already in motion. It's instinct, pure and simple. I grab Scapegoat's good arm to stop him, then his dislocated arm to quiet him down. He drops the bat-a-rang, wincing in pain.

"Don't you understand?" he pleads as I drag him out of the cell and slam the door shut. "I have to kill him. For you, for Gotham. I have to do what you can't!"

"No. Joker is exactly where he belongs," I reply, stepping over the body of Edward Nygma and pushing Scapegoat into the recently vacated cell, "And now, so are you."


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9 – Epilogue

The Goat

It was like the bottom dropped out of the world. I was falling, falling, plummeting ever deeper into an endless, bottomless pitch black pit. I had come so far only to fail, doubly. First because I underestimated my prey, and second because the Bat himself intervened. I tried to tell him, to make him understand that everything I did was for him. But he couldn't see the truth.

And the longer I sat there, smoldering with frustrated purpose, the more I questioned the Bat. Savior? Hero? No, neither. Half measure, false hope. I had placed my faith in an illusion, and learned through cold, hard experience just how wrong I was. Batman is not the answer to Gotham's sins, he is just another part of the problem; a hollow idol that lulls people into complacency, believing he will save them.

I lost track of time after the night the Bat betrayed me, abandoned me in that cell where there was no sunrise, no sunset, nothing but relentless sameness. They took my suit, my mask, left me exposed and helpless to be tasered, drugged, mocked. But I never forgot my mission. Cobblepot, Nygma… it's not a long list, but quality over quantity. Their deaths were good, necessary, satisfying. Killing them brought me peace; real peace, not false pharmaceutical numbness.

Who knows how many days, weeks, even months passed as I sat there, rotting. Until one day, a group of doctors came to my cell door; at least I assumed they were doctors. They stared in at me, muttered to each other, then one casually tossed a pellet through the small opening in the door. Gas poured out, quickly filling my lungs, and in a matter of seconds I was unconscious.

When I opened my eyes, I was here, in this room; still a cell, but a much more comfortable one with a large plexiglass wall. And on the other side of the wall was a man with a shaved head, circular glasses and a narrow fringe of beard, no moustache. Next to him was my suit, with a newly reconstructed mask.

"Hello, Scapegoat is it?" he said, his voice was powerful but not loud; "My name is Dr. Hugo Strange. I trust these new accommodations are more to your liking?"

"Sure."

"Good, because we have a great deal of work ahead of us."

"Work?"

"Yes, of course. Transformation is never easy, or painless I'm afraid. But I promise, we will make of you something magnificent!"


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10 – Epilogue

The Bat

"Come on Kate, you call that a punch?" Dick teases, dodging and deflecting Batwoman's blatantly telegraphed left hook. "It's like you're not…"

But his taunt goes unfinished as he spins away, barely escaping the knee Kate was about to drive into his abdomen. It takes skill to make Dick abandon a verbal jab midstream. These training sessions have helped Kate hone her already impressive fighting skills, and it's good for Dick to have an opponent who keeps him on his toes. Sometimes I spar with them, sometimes I just observe, offer pointers. Sometimes Tim and Damien are on hand, but not tonight. I wanted it to be just the three of us.

"Dick, Kate," I call them over, "I heard from Gordon earlier. Looks like Scapegoat's gone missing."

"Missing?" Kate asks indignantly. "Figures he'd be just like the rest; out before you even have time to miss them."

"Do they know what happened?" Dick chimes in.

"The tapes show him being sedated and taken away by what look like doctors," I tell them. "But I know the face of every man and woman who work at Arkham, and I've never seen these men before."

As I pull up Arkham surveillance footage, Alfred comes down the steps with a tray carrying three glasses of iced tea.

"I thought perhaps some refreshment was in order."

"Good call, Alfred," Dick offers approvingly, grabbing a glass and downing the contents in one uninterrupted series of gulps.

"Thanks," Kate adds, taking hers.

Alfred sets a glass down next to me, but my focus is on the screens; scanning several cameras worth of footage for any sign of a vehicle leaving Arkham.

"Do you ever, just for a second, wish you'd let Scapegoat finish what he started?" Kate asks. "Just a moment's hesitation and no more Joker. Would that have been such a bad thing? What if he just died? Nothing to do with you, just met the ugly end we all know awaits that sick prick. Wouldn't you feel at least a little bit of relief?"

"Maybe; but there's a world of difference between knowing it happened and letting it happen. No killing, that's always been the rule. Letting someone die when you could prevent it is no better. There have to be lines we don't cross, lengths we won't go to. Only gods and monsters have no limits. Joker may well deserve to die… he probably does. But I won't let him make me a killer, betray myself and everything I've fought for. That would be his final victory. Even as the life left him, he would know that he'd won. No."

"Still," Kate sighs, "I can't stop wishing he was dead."

"Same here," Dick adds; "And you know I get the whole 'no killing' rule. I've never questioned you on that. I'm not saying _we_ should do it, but if you could wish someone out of existence…"

"He'd be the one," Kate concurs.

Suddenly the com crackles to life, followed by Jim Gordon's voice.

"Batman, are you there?"

"Right here," I reply. "Any luck tracking Scapegoat's escape?"

"No, we have no idea how they got him off Arkham Island, or even who they were. But that's not why I'm calling…"

"What is it Jim?"

"They have to search… it's part of Arkham procedure, when an inmate goes missing. They have to search the whole cell block, each cell. And…"

"No," Dick is the first to say it.

"Oh God," Kate half-whispers.

I say nothing, just lower my head, close my eyes, breathe deep and listen to Jim deliver the news that we all know is coming.

"He's out, Batman. The Joker has escaped."


End file.
